


November Has Come

by Mechanical_Orange



Category: Luke Cage (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 03:43:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8385892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mechanical_Orange/pseuds/Mechanical_Orange
Summary: She welcomes him inside with a smile on her face. “Why don’t you come inside and have a seat,” she says. “What’s your name, child?”


  “Hernán,” he says. “Hernán Alvarez.”


  “Well, Hernán, tell Mama Mabel what you need.”

The only thing Shades has ever needed is someone to follow, and he's finally found her.





	

When he’s ten years old he’s shivering on the street corner; winter has hit November hard and his coat is too small and too thin to keep away the chill. He hasn’t seen his mom in a couple days, but he’s still going to school like he’s supposed to. He eats as much as he can at lunch, and after school he hangs in the bodega until he gets kicked out. He manages to lift a candy bar before the shop owner gets too suspicious. Dinner is a snickers bar.

 

It’s cold on the street, but it’s just as cold at home in the small apartment he and his mom live in. The radiator’s broken. It’s been broken for a long time. The sun is setting and the streetlights are slowly flickering awake; in the harsh yellow light his coat turns a sickly green color, covered in stains. He can’t even button it up – the last two buttons are missing – he’s not sure he ever had them. The tips of his ears and nose are getting cold, turning red and raw from the wind, and he’s hoping if he goes back home his mom will be there, maybe with a burger. Maybe with a new radiator.

 

“What you doing out here this late?”

 

He looks up and sees a man – not as old as his teacher Miss Caldwell, but older than the teenagers that hang outside the bodega – approach him with a gentle smile on his face. “My name’s Pop,” he says. “You cold? Come on, I think Mama Mabel can help you out.”

 

Pop takes him to a brownstone; it’s warm and bright and a lady welcomes him inside with a smile on her face. “Why don’t you come inside and have a seat,” she says. “What’s your name, child?”

 

“Hernán,” he says. “Hernán Alvarez.”

 

“Well, Hernán, tell Mama Mabel what you need.”

   

There’s a boy sitting at the piano in the corner. His fingers linger over the keys and slowly piece together a soft melody.

 

Hernán shrugs. “My coat’s too small,” he mumbles.

 

“Cornell,” Mama Mabel says. The music stops, the last note hangs in the air for a split second before she speaks again. “Go up and get one of your old coats for Hernán here.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.” He leaves his piano and disappears upstairs; he doesn’t bother to look at Mama Mabel or Hernán.

 

“Where’s your mama at, Hernán?” she asks. Her voice is gentle; she’s smiling, but it’s a little… wrong. Hernán can’t quite describe it. He doesn’t know the word duplicitous yet.

 

Hernán shrugs again. “Sometimes she’s gone for a few days. But she comes back.”

 

“I know she will, sweetheart, but if you ever need anything you just come and let Mama Mabel know about it.”

 

He nods slowly, eyes wide and hopeful. Maybe she could fix the radiator too.

 

“Mama,” a voice called from the front room. “I’m home.” A girl, older than Cornell, walks into view with a large bag slung over her should and a stack of books balanced in her arm. She’s wearing a purple corduroy dress with an orange sweater underneath and Hernán thinks she looks like the girls he sees in the Macy’s catalogue. He likes her curly hair and the way her pink blush stands out on her dark skin. She hardly gives Hernán more than glance.

 

“Go upstairs to do your studying, Mariah,” Mama Mabel tells her.

 

Mariah nods her head and disappears just as Cornell returns. He hands Hernán a coat; it’s too big for him, but it’s thick and warm and it has all its buttons.

 

“Thank you,” Hernán says.

 

“You’re welcome, Hernán,” Mama Mabel says. “Don’t be a stranger.”

 

That night Hernán wraps himself up in his new coat and sleeps better than he has in days. When he wakes up his mom is home and her eyes are bloodshot, but she’s holding a bag from McDonald’s and she kisses her son’s forehead and doesn’t ask questions about his new coat.

 

* * *

 

 

Harlem is bright. Brighter than he remembers. But, he supposes, things are bound to look different when you’re no longer starving on the streets. The park he remembers well, that playground where he spent afternoons mulling around the swing set, pretending like his mom was there watching him. Like she gave a shit. Yeah, Hernán has a lot of memories at this park, but none of them are particularly fond. That’s alright with him, though, because he’s here to make new ones.

 

Mariah Stokes is Mariah Dillard now, and a politician. A good one. A charismatic one. Shades watches her as she smiles and laughs and charms the public on a sunny afternoon in Harlem. She’s all poise and practiced handshakes, soundbites about Harlem and her campaign to kick-start a new renaissance. She’s wearing blue, not purple, and her hair is shorter. Her cheeks are still pink.

 

She’s arguing with Cottonmouth; she tells him he shouldn’t be here. Shades agrees, but it’s not his call to make and Cornell shows up at Mariah’s little political stunt for no good reason other than to antagonize her. It’s childish, Shades think, but Cornell’s always been childish. It’s not as endearing as it once was.

 

Shades can’t stop staring at her. He never could, but this isn’t some schoolboy crush. Children get to have pretty fantasies; adults get to face hard realities. How many years has it been since he’s seen her? And not just on a local news station. Years ago she was young and studious and solemn; he was younger and curious and bold. But never quite bold enough to speak to her the way he wanted, the way he saw a few guys in the crew speak to her while he hid behind them in the shadows. He doesn’t have anyone to hide behind now, so he doesn’t. He stares right at her, past Cornell and watches her every move, every terse remark she gives Cornell. He can’t help but smile.

 

He remembers Mama Mabel’s warm façade and her ruthless demeanor that laid underneath.

 

Cornell inherited neither.

 

* * *

 

 

When Hernán is twelve years old his father comes back from… well, he’s never really said. Hernán doesn’t trust him, doesn’t even know him. But he looks like Hernán, same nose, same brown eyes, and the same smile, the few times Hernán saw it.

 

It’s almost like a joke when it starts. Hernán spills a glass of milk on the table. “You’re so clumsy,” his father says with a clap on the shoulder. But it’s too hard to be friendly; it stings. “Clean it up,” he says. And something about the way he says it makes Hernán scrub the table until it shines. Later that week Hernán wakes up from a dead sleep to hear something falling to the floor in the kitchen. In the morning, there’s a bruise on his mother’s face.

 

Sometimes Hernán goes to school with a split lip and a back covered in purple marks. And it’s odd, the way people notice, or rather, don’t. Everyone stares. No one says anything. His teacher speaks softly to him, offers to let him turn in his homework late. But she never asks.

 

No one ever asks.

 

Hernán stays out on the streets as late as he dares – his father doesn’t like it when he skulks home past dark, but his father doesn’t like it either when Hernán spends too much time at home. His father doesn’t like much.

 

He’s sporting a particularly nasty bruise on his cheekbone, it’s dark purple and blue, the kind of bruise that leaves a yellow stain on the skin for weeks. He loiters outside the bodega hoping someone might drop some cash or a candy bar, anything so Hernán has an excuse to stay out a little longer. Hell, he’d even pick a fight. He’s already taken a few hits, so what’s a few more?

 

The next boy who comes out of the bodega gets Hernán’s fist to his face. The boy’s bigger than Hernán, but he’s blindsided by the punch and stumbles, dropping a can of Coke and some chips.

 

“What the hell, man?” he cries.

 

“Fuck you,” Hernán replies.

 

“Fuck you too!” The boy pushes Hernán to the ground and starts kicking him in the stomach. It hurts a lot, but he doesn’t cry out. It doesn’t hurt as much as his father’s fists.

 

“What the hell is going on here?” Pop turns the corner and rushes over, pulling the boy off Hernán.

 

“This asshole just punched me for no reason!”

 

Pop glances at Hernán on the ground. “Don’t I know you?” he asks. “Yeah, you’re one of Mama Mabel’s aren’t you?”

 

Hernán stares at him from the ground, nose bleeding, bruise looking darker than ever against his olive skin. He nods slowly.

 

“Get your ass up,” Pop says. “Let’s go see Mama Mabel.” He helps Hernán up and slings an arm around his shoulder.

 

“What about my fucking soda?” Hernán’s victim asks.

 

“Buy a new one,” Pop says, flicking some change at the boy.

 

The brownstone is the same as he remembers it. And the boy is still there, sitting at the piano, and playing a slow melody.

 

“It’s good to see you again Hernán,” Mama Mabel greets. “What happened to your face?”

 

“Got into a fight,” he tells her.

 

“Pop said you were getting into some trouble down by the bodega,” she says. “That bruise on your face from your fight too?”

 

Hernán feels like he’s been waiting years for this question, for someone to say something. And it’s only then he realizes he doesn’t have an answer.

 

He shrugs.

 

“I see,” Mama Mabel says. She sits down at the table, taking the chair next to his. She’s close, close enough to reach out and hold his hand, but she doesn’t. She leaves it on the table, just inches away from his. “Bruises like that don’t just pop up overnight,” he says softly. “Bruises like that take some time, and some effort. I don’t like to see kids walking around with bruises like that because usually those bruises aren’t an accident. Were they an accident, Hernán?”

 

Hernán shakes his head.

 

“I want to help you, Hernán,” she tells him. “But I need you to do something for me.”

 

Hernán starts running with a crew, just an errand boy for Mama Mabel at first, delivering messages and parcels to and from her associates. It’s a good gig, it gives him something to do, something to keep from going home right after school.

 

A few weeks into his new job and Mama Mabel calls him into the dining room and the sit down, just like all those weeks before. “You’ve been doing good, Hernán,” she says. “I’m proud of you.” She smiles. “I want you to keep it up; I think you have a future here.”

 

When Hernán gets home that evening his father isn’t there. And he isn’t there the next night either. Or the next. He catches his mother crying a few times, but neither of them says anything. Hernán never sees his father again.

 

Mama Mabel tells him to start following Cornell around, helping him out, backing him up. At the first signs of trouble Cornell folds under pressure, he lets a couple guys off the hook for money they owe Mama Mabel. Hernán doesn’t say anything. Not the first time, but when Cornell walks out of the ensuing meeting with Mama Mabel sporting a red mark on his cheek, Hernán decides he needs to make a few changes.

 

The next time someone gives Cornell lip, Hernan hits the offender in the knee with a pipe. All it takes is once, and after that Cornell is much quicker with his fist, doesn’t seem to care that he needs his fingers for the keyboard anymore. It’s a good partnership, and Hernán isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty.

 

He doesn’t see Cornell’s cousin much anymore. Mariah, Cornell told him, is studying at Columbia to become a lawyer. She’s there all the time now, it’s just him and Mama Mabel and Uncle Pete. And then one day Uncle Pete isn’t around anymore, and the next time Hernán and Cornell have words with an incompetent dealer Cornell almost beats the man to death.

 

“What happened to Pete?” Hernán asks him.

 

“He’s a fucking traitor,” Cornell replies. His tone is harsh, but there’s no conviction behind it. “He had to go.”

 

Hernán doesn’t bring it up again.

 

* * *

 

 

Cornell is not a snake.

 

Not like his nickname might imply (it never did, it was only a schoolyard taunt). A cottonmouth snake is deadly, vicious and sly – he’d seen a couple during his time in Georgia. They love the water; they’ll defend their territory regardless of how big the threat. Cornell likes his whisky, he likes his club, and he’ll strike at anyone who threatens to harm it, but it’s never calculated, never deliberate. Cornell’s methods are only reactionary, and his venom is a bare knuckle and a blunt bullet. Things that hurt, things that can kill, but things more about the message than result.

 

Cornell does not lie in wait for his prey; he confronts Luke Cage (Carl Lucas) and tells him that his past is no longer a secret. Thanks to Cornell’s mouthing off, Shades has to listen to Diamondback rant for a full ten minutes about how useless Cottonmouth is before he can convince Diamondback to let him take care of this mess.

 

The brownstone has changed since the last time he’s been inside of it. It’s brighter just like the rest of Harlem, just like Mariah’s Harlem. The rich oak paneling and wallpaper of Mama Mabel’s home are now cheerful yellow walls and tasteful pieces of artwork by Harlem’s most renown artists. It’s modern and well-appointed, a perfect mirror of Councilwoman Mariah Dillard.

 

It’s a bold move to visit her at her home like this, to just barge right in and give her his particular brand of a motivational speech, but he’s hedging his bets. Cornell can’t be trusted; he’s rash and short-sighted, and Shades fears that he no longer has Diamondback’s ear.

 

He’s been thinking about this moment for a long time, but his heart is beating faster than it should. When he catches her hand before it connects with his face, he tries not to look too pleased at the fact that her skin is just as soft as he’d always thought. He leaves her with a few cryptic words of encouragement and a smirk. He thinks it’ll be enough.

 

When he returns to Harlem’s Paradise that night, he knows it is.

 

Cornell Stokes’ body is lying in a pool of his own blood. He’s dead. And Mariah is standing over him, holding a bloody mic stand and breathing hard.

 

* * *

 

When Hernán sees Mariah again he's fifteen, and she’s studying at the dining room table, books piled around her. She doesn’t even look up when her cousin and Hernán enter.

 

“Back from law school already?” Cornell asks, but it sounds like an insult when he says it.

 

“Mama Mabel said I should come home for the weekend,” Mariah replies. “She said you needed looking after.” She looks up at her cousin; a smug lift of her lip at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes flick to Hernán, but she’s unfazed by his presence.

 

“I don’t need anyone looking after me,” Cornell spits. “Least of all you.”

 

“She said you can’t even keep Pete’s old errand boys in line.” Mariah’s grinning, and Hernán can recognize a taunt when hears one. But is it much of a taunt if it’s embarrassingly true? Without Hernán (and Pop) Mama Mabel’s little empire would’ve begun crumbling underneath Cornell’s feet. It’s something Hernán is slowly realizing, but when it hits him, it hits him hard – it doesn’t really matter who the leader is, as long as the leader’s got the right kind of people behind him. Or her.

 

Cornell scowls. “Mama Mabel don’t know nothing.”

 

“I know I didn’t just hear that,” Mama Mabel says as she enters the room. Mariah’s head snaps back to her books and Cornell looks down at his feet.

 

“No, Mama,” he mumbles.

 

Mama Mabel surveys the room, her mouth set in a hard line until she sees Hernán. She gives him a warm smile. “Good work today, Hernán.” She slips him a twenty-dollar bill. “Why don’t you go on home?”

 

There’s an odd tension in the brownstone that Hernán can’t quite understand. He gets goosebumps down the back of his neck as she slips out of the house; they only dissipate when he shuts the front door behind him.

 

Shades thinks he understands that tension now, that odd feeling he got whenever the Stokes family gathered in the same room together. With Cornell’s last breath that tension has been broken. Permanently.

 

He reaches out to touch her, gently, calmly. He looks into her eyes and speaks slowly. He feels the heat of her body through her clothes, her pulse thrumming. Her eyes are wide, and her face is a mask of detached horror. He knows she’s going into shock, but it will pass. She’s stronger than her polite façade; she was born for this. It’s time she knows it. His words come effortlessly, like he’s planned it all from the beginning. This is what he’s good at, the invaluable service he gave to Cornell and to Diamondback, now all of it belongs to Mariah. She’s at once more grateful and indignant than either of them.

 

“That’s the last time you will ever call me a bitch,” she tells him. Adrenaline makes her voice shaky, but she’s never sounded more threatening.

 

Shades smiles.


End file.
